


Huff! Puff! (And Blow Your Man Down!)

by akaVertigo



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Male Pregnancy, werefox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaVertigo/pseuds/akaVertigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's late, it's cold, and I'm still goddamn pregnant. Get out of my way, Adam."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Huff! Puff! (And Blow Your Man Down!)

****

XxXxXxX

It's been a long, long day.

One of the ovens clunked out in the morning. The men's room light refused to work no matter how many light bulbs they tried. A customer's chair broke. Three unmentioned food allergies. The new guy showed up drunk (again). The week’s order of zucchini arrived as a load of nonorganic carrots, and the art kids were stealing the sugar packets. The mop sink was possessed. Half the late shift staff was sick with the flu, meaning nobody went home on time.

And now there's a wolf on Kris' doorstep.

"Hey," Adam says. He looks illogically tall sitting down, maybe more so than usual because of the way hunching in the building's tiny doorway has his knees by his ears. The heavy-duty boots and biker jacket emphasize the utter absurdity. There's a cardboard box next to him.

"What do you want?" Kris asks. Rude, sure, but he’s got the right. He shifts his aching, swollen feet and attempts a glare.

Adam's shoulders draw together like a depressed caterpillar. "I wanted, um. That’s. In case anything was." Kris waits, noticing how Adam's throat bobs and his eyes duck low. "How are you doing?”

Kris could bite his nose off.

Five months, he thinks. Five months including a life changing mission trip, sweating deliriously on a rickety hospital cot, coming home only to think he was going crazy, waking up in the woods with the neighbor's cat in pieces, running away to LA in a fit of delirium and desperation, getting lost in a state park, getting chased in the middle of the night to the point of passing out to avoid a heart attack, waking up naked and shaky in someone's sleeping bag and then, _then_ things got weird.

Five months after becoming a werefox and four months after meeting Adam fucking Lambert, Kris can honestly say: "It's late, it's cold, and I'm still goddamn pregnant. Get out of my way, Adam."

He tries to stomp past the wolf to the door, but Adam budges up further into the corner as if trying to compress himself into less frustrating proportions. Kris winds up half tripping over the cardboard box instead. Something inside rattles.

"What, you're bringing stalking supplies now?" Kris snarls. It comes out as a yip.

Adam grabs the box and is up in one oiled, insultingly graceful spring. His eyes are wide and his mouth is nervous, but the eyeliner is perfect and his lips have an artificial sheen that Kris remembers tastes like kiwi.

 _Figures_ , Kris thinks as he finally reaches the door. A rush of heat hits his face and sweat pops up unpleasantly on his neck and back. The bulky sweaters he wraps in are excellent camouflage; their climate control, however, is lousy. He can't wait to strip off, to sit down, put his feet up, close his eyes—

"There's a storm coming."

Kris pauses wrestling his key free of the lock. Adam is half-in, half-out of the doorway, giant box of whatever clutched in his arms and looking so earnest Kris wants to kis—kick him. Or something.

"I'm indoors," Kris says. "Rain isn't really a major panic issue."

Unless the roof leaks again, reality reminds. But who cares? If it leaks, Kris will man up and wobble up the ladder—again—to plug it. God knows his landlord won't. Not that Adam with his stupidly roomy bungalow and wide windows and handmade lamps and vintage bar stools and purple sheets knows anything about that.

"I know. It's, I mean, it's not like I think you can't take care of yourselves. Yourself. You." Adam swallows painfully. He's fidgety when nervous which isn't something Kris noticed before. Then again, it's not as if being with Adam left much mental room for details. Some days Kris felt lucky he remembered how to walk straight and, damn it, he really doesn't need the sensory flashback.

Goddamn pregnancy goddamn were-goddamn-hormones.

"The power," Adam says. "They said, on the radio, that the power could go. It might go out. Like, blackouts."

The wolf raises his box, tentatively hopeful and obviously anxious. For a moment, all Kris can do is stare at him.

"Adam," he says finally. "I'm from Arkansas."

"I know that," Adam says, defensive. Like he's upset at the implication that he didn't know a basic fact of Kris' life because, oh yeah, knowledge sharing has been a big positive in their relationship. Their ex-relationship. Which was never a very real relationship in the first place. Because Adam is a toothy jerk and liar and—ok, yeah, whatever.

"Arkansas," Kris repeats. "Where we have tornados. I've been through plenty of bad storms."

"Yeah, but." Adam jostles his box. Again, the rattling. "That was before, when you were...less distracted."

"Is that what they're calling it now?" Kris says and Adam flinches. The sight of it is physically galling. Adam isn't just an alpha; he's _the_ alpha. Kris recognized it before he knew what he was looking at, before he knew what an alpha was, back when Adam was the flash of a face in a dim bar. It's downright creepy to see him this uncertain.

He probably barreled through Home Depot like a train, Kris thinks, looking for storm supplies. God only knows what he ended up actually buying.

Kris sighs, exhausted. He doesn't need this. He doesn't want this. His life can't handle another ounce of complication.

"The elevator's busted," he says finally. "You might as well come along and carry the stuff upstairs."

It's going to be a long, long night.

****

xXxXx

  


Adam's box of emergency supplies includes: a flashlight, a four-pack of fat candles, a whistle, a Bio Hazard bag, paper plates, an air horn, aluminum foil, tinned and packaged food, juice, aspirin, rain gear, an extension cord, dish soap, pliers, safety pins, and towels. Because the box is _Adam's_ , the flashlight has no batteries, the candles are pomegranate scented and sans matches, the rain coat is striped, the painkillers are hollistic, and the food contains things like pistachio paté, whole wheat linguini, Sahli olives, and "organically responsible” raw orange blossom honey.

Adding insult to injury is a goody bag of antiseptic cleansing wipes, fabric bandages, a thermometer, a sterile eye pad, tweezers, an instant cold compress, burn cream, antibacterial soap, insect repellent, lip balm, OB towelettes, antacids, gauze sponges, paper towel sheets, a disposable plastic apron, a polymer underpad, a bulb syringe, disposable scalpels, and a stuffed sheep.

It has button eyes and a nubby tail, and floppy ears. Kris spends a long moment staring at the ears.

"I didn't know what to bring," Adam says. He sounds nearly as pitiful as the sheep.

A week after they met, Adam took him to a bar. It was a members-only watering hole in the wall: the doorman was literally a bear, the bottle service was three hundred a pop, and everyone looked scary-beautiful. It was the first time Kris had been (let) out of bed for more than ten minutes in two days. The place had smelled like sweat and fur and some kind of fantastic incense, and people looked at Adam like he was—something. Important in terrifyingly regal way. It was probably how Kris was supposed to look at him too, except he was too busy smiling. Lots and lots of smiling. He couldn’t help it. He tried to, but he couldn't. Even when they got drinks and Kris sputtered at the spiciness, shirt damp and stupid, and Adam mopped the stain and laughed, and put his big, warm hands on either side of Kris’ goofy face and kissed him, slow and purposeful like they were alone, like the crowd was nothing, like this was something they always did and would always do. Kris couldn’t remember ever feeling happier. Safer. More cared for.

Two weeks later Kris sat in a basement doubling as a doctor “office” and, yeah, that was another emotional record broken.

“Have you eaten?” Kris asks. It’s a relevant question because Kris’ new metabolism needs perpetual fueling and because Kris remembers enough to remember that wolves need more than foxes. Something about the human-to-paws mass ratio or whatever.

Adam blinks at him, obviously unbalance by the civility. There wasn’t much of it when they parted. “I, no. I mean, there was lunch.”

“You’ve been sitting on my doorstep since then?” Kris asks, startled.

Adam shrugs. “It's fine.”

“Right until you start eying someone’s Pomeranian,” Kris says. “You know what you’re like when you get hungry. You should have packed a couple of candy bars at least, or an apple and some jerky. You need to keep your blood sugar up. I don’t see why you—what?”

“Huh? Oh, um, it’s nothing.” Adam ducks his head too late to hide the smile. “Nobody has yelled at me about that in a while.”

Right, because who’s going to lecture one of LA’s top alphas about carrying a bag lunch? Kris scowls at himself, and by extension Adam, and retreats to the kitchen.

The best thing about working in a cafe is the leftovers; the worst thing about working in a vegan cafe is...the leftovers. At best, Kris’ feelings about BBQ tofu are “complicated”. Foxes are omnivorous and weres are adaptable, and somehow between the two, Kris’ condition translates into a passion for blackberries and crayfish. There’s also the fact that his vulpine stomach holds only half the amount his system actually needs, meaning he’s gotten used to dreaming about dinner before he’s finished digesting lunch.

He sets today’s windfall (spinach gyoza) on the counter and puts a pot of water on the stove, then slits open a pack of hot dogs. Adam watches him boil the wieners like a front row witness at a bomb diffusion. Kris can see his neck muscle tense with the need to turn and nose around. He doesn’t offer a tour.

There’s ketchup but no buns, so they wind up munching naked franks and dull dumplings, accompanied by discount orange juice. Kris hates orange juice but needs the potassium; BabyMed.com says so. He’s a little scared to think how the rest of the meal ranks on the health meter, but what can he do? He knows he needs better groceries but having your body’s peak hours be dawn and dusk isn’t particularly conductive to bargain shopping. He’s lucky to have enough energy to shuffle through his shifts at work, let alone find the gas to crawl to the all-night market for necessities. He’s got soap, but no shampoo, a rapidly dwindling supply of detergent (which makes his nose raw), and a schizophrenic light bulb in the bathroom.

“So,” Adam says, “how are things?”

“How’s Brad?” Kris asks. “Or Tommy? How about Monte?” Adam’s expression is openly pained flinches, but Kris barrels on. “Matt? Lil? Danielle? I’d ask them myself, except for how they tend to run out of the cafe the second I notice them. I’ve been taken off the register twice this week for scaring off customers, but, hey, pass on my thanks. For the record, is there anyone among your groupies you haven't ordered to spy on me? Because, you know, maybe we could have a sign in sheet. I don’t want anyone to miss getting paid for the overtime.”

“They’re worried about you,” Adam says. This, Kris notes, isn’t an actual denial of said spying. “It’s not—look, what would you have us do? You don’t answer calls or emails, you haven’t set foot anywhere familiar. It was hard enough finding out where you work. A vegan cafe? Really, Kris?”

“Well, I don’t have a lot of options in my current state of being knocked up,” Kris says. “Gainful employment is a bit risky when any place hiring would sell my picture to the Weekly Weird news rather than accept a resume.”

“The were owned businesses—”

“Are too busy kissing your ass,” Kris finishes. “Excuse me for not wanting to be babysat or referred to as Lambert’s breeding tank.”

Adam’s fist clenches hard on the table. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Kris says. It comes out tired and puny, but so what? He is tired and puny.

“I am. I know you don’t believe me, you don’t have a reason to believe me, but it’s true. Kris, I never—I never meant for it to be like this,” Adam says. “I’m not asking you to forgive me for not telling you about, about the risk. I don’t have any excuse for that. But you have to, Kris, you have to let me explain. It, I know it won’t excuse anything, but I need you to understand what it was like. Finding you.”

Kris drinks his juice, eyes steady over the rim of the glass. He can hear the first tap of rain begin its beat outside.

“Okay, here’s the thing.” Adam licks his lips. “The thing is I never expected you. When alphas mate long-term, well, that’s the problem; they almost never do. It’s part of how alphas build packs, the high sex drive and the territory issues. It’s all a way of making bonds. Most of us can’t focus on one person.”

“So you’re a liar and a slut,” Kris says. “Good to know.”

He feels like crap for saying it, anger be damned, but Adam doesn’t seem offended. “What I’m saying is that we can’t focus on one person unless we force ourselves to do so. Which, big surprise, doesn’t work out well for anyone. The divorce rate in alphas is astronomical. My parents—” He cuts himself off. “Point is I fucked around. I did it for years and I was planning to continue doing it, and I was fine with it. I was content. I need you to understand that.”

Kris snorts. “Sure, message received. You had a glorious life of sex, fur, rock and ro—”

“I need you to understand,” says Adam, “so that when I say that you define the single most important moment of my entire life, you understand how different that point was from everything else in my life until then.” He waits for Kris’ response. Kris doesn't have one. Adam nods and continues. “When I first smelled your scent, I choked on my spit, did I ever tell you that?” He didn’t. “I totally did. I ran into a fucking bush and flailed like a moron, too. It was like having an aneurysm during a heart attack in the course of a religious epiphany.”

“I’d be a lot more sympathetic if you hadn’t then chased me over two miles of forest,” Kris says.

“Your scent was all over the place,” Adam says. “That’s how I knew you were alone and completely clueless. I was curious.”

“I passed out.”

“Okay, yes, that I am sorry about.” Adam ducks his head. He looks like a very large, very young puppy when he does that. It’s completely unfair. “I panicked when I heard you moving away. It was a matter of instinct.”

“So is a fox running away from a two hundred pound wolf,” Kris says. Adam’s mouth swings open automatically and Kris knows he’s about to say he weighs a lone hundred and fifty on four legs, _puh_ -lease. Adam shuts his trap and fiddles with his fork instead.

“You were such a small thing,” he says finally. “I couldn’t comprehend it at first. How you could be so out of proportion with what I felt in my head. Because, see, you were an earthquake in my head, but lying there on the ground, you were tiny. I thought...I kept thinking...”

“What?” says Kris.

“I thought: nobody, not even the rain, has such small paws.” Carefully, Adam sets the fork down on his plate. “Then I picked you up and carried you back to my camp site, and put you to bed.”

“You shoved me into your sleeping bag, which also had you in it.” Kris thinks the latter is worth pointing out. A lot.

“I did,” Adam nods. “Then I called my mom.”

“What?” says Kris. “You never told me that.”

“It’s the truth,” Adam says. “I don’t remember what I told her exactly, but she says I sounded hysterical. To be fair, I probably was. My mind was all over the place. I was afraid to touch you in case you’d try to run away again. But, oh God, I wanted to.” He laughs weakly. “I could feel the shape of you, in my head. You were beautiful.”

“Hormones,” Kris says. “I hadn’t shifted. You didn’t know what color my hair would be.”

“Kris, I wanted to fuck you blind while you had a fluffy tail and were the size of a wallet; do you think I gave a damn about blond versus bald?” Adam says. “Frankly, it’s amazing I was coherent enough to introduce myself when you woke up.”

“You said hello, I’m Adam and asked me where my leash was,” Kris says. He swallows and wishes there was more juice; his throat is woolly. “I thought you were psychotic.”

“It was a reasonable question,” Adam says.

“How would I know? It’s not like I ever needed to learn the term for a group of foxes,” Kris says. “I thought it’d be a called a pack or a band, or something. I’d been bitten for less than two months! Two months of thinking I was going crazy and then suddenly I’m in the middle of the woods plastered against a guy wearing eyeliner and we’re both stark-naked. And your hand was on my dick.”

“It was only a little petting,” Adam says.

“You were scent marking me,” Kris says, “before you knew my name.”

“I was nervous,” Adam says.

“You were a presumptuous, horny, overly possessive ass,” Kris says.

“But you still let me buy you breakfast,” Adam says. “Two sausage and a chicken omelet with wheat toast. Coffee with milk, no sugar.”

“Oh, _that_ you remember.”

“I’ve been using the sleeping bag every night since you left,” Adam says. “It’s the only thing that helps.”

The first week alone, Kris used one of Adam’s shirts for a pillowcase. What’s worse is that he doesn’t even remember packing the damn rag during his exodus. It’d taken scissors and a lot of insomnia to kill the temptation. Kris looks across the table at the ridiculous hair, the eyes, the unhappy mouth, the big hands and black nails, the artfully distressed collar of his shirt, the ear gauges, the strong neck, the wide shoulders, the hard jaw, the freckles.

There’s no part of Adam he hasn’t missed.

“Why did you do it?” Kris asks.

“I told you,” Adam says. “It was the first time, I was too overwhelmed to think about propriety. I couldn't help being hands and tongue and, well, you know.”

Kris shakes his head. “Why did you lie, Adam? We were fucking each other stupid, fine, but after you knew what had happened how could you keep it from me? How could you order people,” people like Brad, Dani, Allison, Tommy, people he trusted, people he thought he could rely on, “not to tell me? What was the big plan, anyway? How long were you going to hide it if I hadn’t fainted in Cassidy’s dressing room? Do you know why I went to the doctor without telling you? I thought I'd caught something and I didn’t want to risk passing it on. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you.” The thought is foul in Kris' mouth. He starts clearing the table. “Can you imagine how it felt to hear that my mate had been lying to me for weeks about the fact that I was carrying his son?”

"I was afraid!" Kris’ hands clench on the forks but he lifts his head. Adam has both hands in his hair, clutching at his bangs. His eyes are frantic. "I was afraid of how you'd react to the news. Let's be real, you were just getting used to the idea of rabbit tartare; how were you going to react to being pregnant? I kept thinking that if only I could find the right words or the right moment..." He reaches out to Kris. "I couldn't bear the thought of you leaving."

"Funny how that worked out," Kris says. He dumps the dishes into the sink and turns the water on hot as it goes. Which isn’t exactly boiling because the building’s water heater is a joke. Kris scrubs the pot with his fingers; the sponge succumbed to leprosy last week.

“Don’t,” he says. The heat of Adam’s hand evaporates from his back. Kris exhales. He props his hands on the sink’s edge and focuses on breathing calmly, on standing steady, on keeping the prickle in his eyes at bay. He focuses on how the rain is lashing the window glass. He focuses on the wail of the wind.

It’s going to be a bad one, he can tell.

“You can crash on the couch until it lets up,” Kris says. “But in the morning, you’re gone. Nonnegotiable. That’s the deal, take it or get the hell out.”

“Understood,” Adam says. He sounds breathless. Kris finishes wiping the pot, dries his hands, and heads for his bedroom, all without looking at the wolf frozen in the middle of his kitchen.

“Kris?”

He doesn't turn around. “What?”

“Is it really a boy?”

“Yes,” Kris says. “If you come anywhere near the bedroom, Adam, I’ll shove a lamp down your throat. Good night.”

****

xXxXx

  


Of course he can't sleep.

Kris rolls over on his side and punches the pillow further under his head, but it's a lost cause. His hip is aching again. His neck cramps. His toes are freezing. The bed is comforting as a cheap coffin. Kris shuts his eyes and tries to not think about anything.

It works about as well as he expects.

He wants to blame the weather. It's certainly nasty enough; he can _feel_ the building shake from the mean, bleak howl. The cafe's roof has probably blown off by now. He spares a joyless thought for the poor squash muffins and cornmeal cakes helplessly tossing in the gale. Oh, the horror! The gluten-free, fair-trade, organic horror.

 _You're not funny_ , Kris' conscience tells his brain. _Also this is pathetic._

Kris' conscience is a bitch. But, whatever, it can whine and rot, because he doesn't care what it—or his goddam hormonal instincts—says, Kris is not leaving this bed.

...except that he really, really has to pee.

Goddamn it.

He gets out of bed sluggishly and is shivering before his feet find the floor. Putting on a sweater would be admitting the possibility of staying up, so he doesn't. When was the last time he felt warm, anyway?

The answer is sickeningly easy to remember. Adam's loft, Adam's bed, Adam's army of fluffy pillows and the quilted comforter from Adam’s mom that he suddenly insisted on wrapping around them. Kris should've suspected that at least. Adam barely bothered with a linen sheet with how hot he ran. But, no, Kris didn’t question the change. Kris thought it was _cute_.

God, he was stupid.

Pregnancy hasn't reduced Kris' night vision, but exhaustion makes him too clumsy to profit from it. He stumbles to the bathroom more by memory than observation. Miraculously, he doesn't trip over anything on the way.

That doesn't stop him from running into Adam.

"Um," says the wolf. He pulls both hands behind his back in tune to a telltale rattle.

"What the hell are—are those pills? Are you sneaking drugs into my bathroom?" Kris flicks on the light. Yep, that's definitely his medicine cabinet: open and occupied with a variety of new arrivals. "Good grief, there’s so much wrong with you."

"It's vitamins!" Adam holds out the bottle uncertainly, half offering and half defense. "They're, like, iron and calcium and Vitamin D and acid." His eyes widen. _"Folic_ acid. It's good for the heart."

"It's a prenatal supplement," Kris says. "You're sneaking prenatal vitamins into my medicine cabinet."

"So?" A glimpse of the real Adam, _alpha maximus_ , peeks through. "The only stuff you have in here is two Tylenol and toothpaste. You don't have dental floss. What happens if you gums start hurting from no flossing and the vomiting? When was your last warm salt water rinse?"

Kris has no idea what he's talking about. Also: "How do you know about the vomiting?"

Adam's nose wrinkles. Oh. Right. Kris' own sense of smell has been roller-coastering from acute to worthless. It's a horrible ride that leaves him feeling half-blind and stupid, but he's gotten used to it. He's gotten used to a lot of things.

"You don't have to take them," Adam says. "You can throw them out later if you want. Just...just leave them here for now. Please? I'd feel better if I know they're there, even if it's only for tonight."

 _Oh, well, if **you** feel better._ But somehow Kris can't muster the vitriol to spit out the sarcasm. Between the vitamins, the insect repellent, and the sheep, his sarcasm reserves are heavily depleted. Truth be told, they were never naturally high to begin with.

"I need to pee," Kris says.

"Oh," Adam says. "Okay."

"No, seriously, I need to pee."

"Right," Adam nods. "That's—good? Peeing is a healthy sign."

"Yeah," Kris says.

"Yes," Adam says.

Jesus Cluny Frog. "Adam, you're in my bathroom."

"Yes?" Adam says. His eyes widen. " _Oh_. Right, you need to—right. Yeah, okay. I'll go..." He waves his hand vaguely. The bottle rattles again. "I'll go back to the couch. You, um, take your time. Thank you, by the way. For the couch."

It's a pathetic couch, but Kris nods. It's lumpy and ugly, and optimistically can only hold two thirds of Adam. Adam takes a step away from the sink, pauses to turn back and close the cabinet, turns again to leave, remembers the pill bottle in his hand, turns left and smacks the towel rack, turns right toward the sink, frowns, sets down the bottle, scoots out the door with his back half through the wall to avoid touching Kris. He darts back to close the door behind him.

 _I'm having his baby_ , Kris thinks.

He sits down on the toilet lid and puts his face in his hands. He can deal with this. He has to. He will deal. Everything is going to be—fine.

Which is when a clap of lightning cracks through the apartment and Kris collapses into his fox form.

****

xXxXx

  


Life, thinks Kris, officially sucks tail.

It takes three, _three!_ , tries to rolls off his back and get upright. Then he has to tunnel out of his now outgrown t-shirt. The whole exercise leaves him panting and bushy-tailed. The only bright light in the whole miserable experience is that the bathroom door swings outward rather than in and that the lock has been broken since Kris moved in.

It doesn't help that Adam is on the couch in his wolf form, looking large and predatory and elegant. Every inch of his groomed and sleek self is an insult.

The problem is that while Kris' human body has yet to show any evidence beyond a chubby bump, his fox shape has no such discretion. His belly is _heavy_. He _waddles_. It's embarrassing and graceless and Adam can bloody well stop staring, thankyou _very_ much. Kris waddles past the wolf with the shreds of his dignity in his teeth.

Adam follows him to the bedroom.

It takes only two tries to finalize that no, Kris is not going to be sleeping in bed because the bed is tall and Kris' swollen self is not particularly aerodynamic. Hopping is a challenge. He doesn't have the strength to glare at his mattress. Fuck his life. Fuck his furry, stumpy, fat, pregnant stupid life. Kris sinks to the floor and tries to sit on his tail to stave off the worst of the cold. He kind of wants to cry.

Adam licks his ear.

Kris' whole furry self automatically squeezes into a tighter coil. It's not because the fox chunks of his brain are afraid of Adam. Heck, fear would be helpful. Fear would have him darting under the bed or out the bedroom door or simply _away_. But, no, Kris isn't afraid. Kris is shivering and small, and hopelessly lonely. His entire body is abruptly starving for warmth, for company, for—

 _Go away_. Kris curls tighter onto himself. He tries to hide his face under his tail.

Adam rubs his cheek against Kris' flank. _No_. Hot breath strokes Kris' side, the vulnerable spot on back of his neck, the base of his tail. Adam's jaws, strong enough to rip the handle off a car door, mouth gently at Kris' ruff. He's a mountain, while Kris feels smaller than the stupid toy sheep. Adam licks his other ear, his neck, the line of his muzzle, his cheek, his chilly paws. He nudges and huffs and licks and pets until Kris is drunk and helpless, rolling easily onto his back.

When Adam's nose touches Kris' stomach, Kris shudders from ear to tail.

Kris' own nose has been an unpredictable ally but there's no way to ignore it now. Adam's intentions are radioactive. There's worry, nervousness and hesitation; there's fear, frustration and suspicion; there's regret, and hopelessness. But these are sparks and dust in comparison to the blue-hot core of emotion underlining Adam's every exhalation.

 _Tenderness. Need. Adoration. Protectiveness._ Kris' ears flatten under the onslaught. _Hunger. Curiosity. Praise._ He butts his head into Adam's ribs: _Stop it_. In answer, Adam's licks his toes: cheater. The storm outside is inconsequential. Kris is magnificently, lusciously warm tucked in against Adam's side. He could stay forever like this.

 _Please._ Adam's pulse drums against his ear. _Please, please, stay, please._ Kris tries to curl away, but Adam snuggles closer to keep him in place. He whines into the pale fur of Kris' underbelly. Kris bats half-heartedly at the great muzzle and Adam lets him, nipping his paws like a pup would.

Like their pup will. Their kit, their kid.

Their son.

This time the shudder is slow and thick, stretching Kris out luxuriously. He lays still for a moment, letting everything penetrate: the cold floor under his bare ass, the hiss of the rain, the pressing warmth of Adam on his thigh, the full heaviness settled over his hips.

When he opens his eyes, Adam is watching him. He looks too uncertain to be called hopeful and too eager to be calm. He looks very young. Kris reaches out and tucks a stray lock of hair behind one ear. It's always such a shaggy mess after shifting. Adam turns his head to press his mouth to Kris' palm.

"Stay," he whispers. Kris feels the word pierce his skin, steam open his veins, cook his heart. Adam closes his eyes and rubs into Kris' palm. "Kris, please. Please."

"Okay." Kris moves his other hands into Adam's hair, cards through the tangles to knit his fingers together at the back of his neck and pull him in. "You can stay."

****

xXxXx

  
In the morning Kris is safely lodged between a wall of pillows and a werewolf furnace. Outside, the world is calm and pretty. Inside, it’s infinitely better.

“Baby?”

“Uh-huh,” Kris says, distracted. Because Adam’s neck? Smells awesome.

“I know you can’t just forgive everything in one go. I understand that, I do, and I won’t ask you to skip any stage of the righteously kicking Adam’s ass process. Whatever it takes, all right? It’s your show.”

"Uh-huh," Kris says.

"I'm serious; you call the shots, start to finish. You want to go to a doctor, we'll go to a doctor. Or you can go by yourself, if you want, or with, with anybody you want to go with. If you want to keep working at the cafe, you can—you should keep working at the cafe. I read that fair trade capitalism in the highly competitive field of cupcakes is, um, great for the skin. Whatever makes you the most comfortable, I'm fully on-board."

"Uh-huh," Kris says.

"I mean, I want you to be wherever you feel you need to, you know, be. No matter where that is or how crappy the locks are or how the plumbing sounds a four AM."

"Uh-huh," Kris says. "Adam?"

"Yes, baby?"

"I want to move back in with you."

" _Thank the holy freakin’ God_." Adam's arms wrap around him as he squeezes, rocking a little. "I didn't know what I was going to do if you wanted to stay in this crappy shoebox. Like, no lie, I was considering buying the building and remodeling while you were sleeping or something."

"That's sweet." Certifiably insane, but sweet. "This place isn't so bad, though. It's got personality."

"It's got a radiator that barely survived the Cold War and a closet with cardboard doors. Kris, I'm in a cold sweat from the idea of you using the shower. At least, not without a Tetanus shot before and after."

"So we're moving," Kris says.

"We're moving," Adam says. "I already got ideas for the bedroom."

"Um," Kris says. "I'm still voting no on the ceiling mirrors."

"What?" Adam says. He sounds honestly confused. "No, listen, I was thinking ducks."

"What?"

"Or maybe honeybees. Bees are pretty neutral, right? I don't want him to feel pressured by any preconceived gender cues based on the unrealistic cuddliness of livestock," Adam says.

"You mean—oh." _Oh._ Kris burrows deeper into Adam's side. His heart is straining at the seams. "I like bees."

"But all that yellow, you know? It might clash with his skin tone. I don't want the little guy to look sallow."

He has to press his mouth against Adam's shoulder, because he must not laugh, oh no. He musn't. "No, that's terrible parenting." He peeks up.

Adam is staring down at him, smiling. "What's the joke?"

 _I'm having his baby,_ Kris thinks. The seam in his heart bursts and he has, _has_ to, push up with his hands on either side of Adam to kiss that beautiful, crazy face until he's used up all the oxygen in his blood and lost all feeling in his tongue, until to urge to laugh to the point of tears recedes, until Adam rolls onto his back and pulls Kris on top of him and presses one big, warm palm against the spot at the tail end of his spine and one hand to the back of Kris neck to set a live wire between the two points, until they're both limp and moaning.

"Sheep," Kris says when he pulls back. He licks the tip of Adam's ear. "I think we should go with sheep."

****

XxXxXxX

**Author's Note:**

> Hats off to who, once again, got stuck with listening to me whine about this fic not being the pretties girl at the prom. Wife-y, you're a star. This fic was originally written for Round 11: _(mis)communication_ over at [Kradamadness](http://kradamadness.dreamwidth.org/).


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